


The System Only Dreams in Total Darkness

by craigboone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mutual Pining, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, both of the boys have bad mental health, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2020-09-28 01:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craigboone/pseuds/craigboone
Summary: Hank Anderson reunites with Connor after a successful android revolution in Detroit. Hank remains troubled about seeing Connor die several times during their deviant investigation while Connor struggles as CyberLife continues to seize control of his programming.





	1. Chapter 1

_ I’m not programmed to say things like this, but I really appreciated working with you. With a little more time, who knows, we might have become-- _

It was the morning after. Everything was still, as if the city was holding its breath. Patches of ice glittered in the pale yellow sunlight. The streets were empty, barricaded. Most of the shops were closed, and Hank Anderson stood alone in front of the Chicken Feed. His stuck his hands into his coat, brushing against Connor’s coin in his left pocket. He ran his fingers over the surface of the coin, thinking about the way Connor’s hands moved as he fidgeted.

He didn't sleep much last night, but he imagined no one in Detroit did. He stayed up, pacing his living room, listening to the news, and picking up and putting down the same beer. Pretty piss-poor night if he didn't even want to drink. He was worried about Connor. When he saw the android walking down the sidewalk to meet him, his body finally relaxed. Connor smiled at him and Hank pulled him in for a hug without thinking. Connor rested his weight against Hank. Connor held the embrace for a few moments longer than Hank anticipated, pushing the hug to awkward length, but Hank didn't push him away. 

"It's good to see you alive," Hank said. He meant this as a joke, but thinking about the times he has seen Connor exactly opposite of alive made his stomach lurch. The entire time they had known each other, Connor had put himself into harm's way. Hank didn't like that Connor saw himself as disposable. That would have to change. CyberLife wouldn't be sending any more androids for a while. 

"It is good to be alive." Connor stared at Hank, which Hank found unnerving. Couldn't he find anything better to look at? 

"Too bad the Chicken Feed is closed," Connor said. "Now your arteries will continue to function for one more day." 

“Why did CyberLife design you to be such an asshole?” Hank clapped his hand against Connor’s shoulder. 

“CyberLife designed me to work harmoniously with humans. However, my programming regarding interaction with humans has probably been most dramatically influenced by my time spent working with you.” 

Hank studied Connor’s face. Snow was collecting on Connor’s cheeks and frosting his eyelashes. “Where are you going to go now, Connor?” 

Connor’s LED flickered yellow. “I am not sure.” He blinked, knocking the snowflakes loose. 

“You’re welcome back at my place.” Hank spoke without thinking this idea through, but he didn’t like the idea of Connor being out on the streets while tension was so high. As many people seemed sympathetic to the androids, there were just as many humans who were out for blue blood. 

The yellow LED continued to pulsate. “I would not want to be an inconvenience to you, Lieutenant. While I have enjoyed our time together, you are not obligated to continue our relationship now that--” 

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t fucking want to.” Hank crossed his arms over his chest. Fat wafts of snow fell heavy around them.

“In that case, I suppose I would like that. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Connor followed Hank back to the car. Their footsteps crunching in the layer of snow forming over hardened chips of ice. Sirens howled in the distance. 

  


Hank dropped Connor off at the house on the way to the station, unlocking the front door for him. Connor stopped to kneel down and pet Sumo. Sumo licked Connor’s face, but the android didn’t seem to mind. Connor grinned his goofy, stupid grin, and Hank was glad that for a moment that Connor wasn’t watching him like Hank was the human exhibit in a zoo for androids. 

“He’ll like having you around the place,” Hank said. He thought that the dog probably got lonely alone in the house all day. When Hank was home Sumo followed him around the house, and Hank was always tripping over himself trying to avoid stepping on Sumo’s paws.

Hank looked around the house. He would say that he was sorry for the mess, but he wasn’t. He’d lived alone for this long and he honestly didn’t care what the place looked like. 

“If you decide to go out today, there's a key under the mat.” 

“It is a safety risk to hide your spare key in such a predictable spot.”

Hank kicked an old take-out container out of his path. “I doubt it would be worth the effort to rob this place.” 

Hank went to the kitchen to fill up on coffee. The pot was still on. He poured the remains from the glass carafe into a to-go mug that wasn’t technically dirty, because it had only previously held coffee. “What are you going to do all day?” He asked. He knew that Connor followed him without looking over his shoulder. 

Connor waited a beat before responding. “I suppose I will engage in leisure activities. This will be my first day off since my activation. Previously, while I was not working I would return to CyberLife for any necessary diagnostics and then remain in a stasis chamber until the next day.” 

“What the fuck is a stasis chamber?” Hank knew he probably wouldn’t like the answer.

“It’s a seven-foot by two-and-a-half-foot space where I could review the details of the case and remain dormant for the three to four hours that CyberLife recommends for its androids to maintain at top function.”

“They put you in a fucking coffin while you weren’t working?” Hank pictured the times that Connor’s body had been returned to CyberLife crumpled, shot, covered in thick blue blood. He felt nauseous. 

“Do not be distressed, Lieutenant. It was not like a coffin at all. It’s more like a closet." Of course, Connor could read all of Hank’s tells. You can’t lie to someone who can tell how fast your heart is beating. 

“That’s fucked up, Connor.” Hank took a long swig of his burnt coffee. 

“It was not uncomfortable,” Connor reassured him, his hands resting on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He was looking at the broken window Hank had covered with a black trash bag and duct tape. "I am glad to be here.” 

Hank looked past Connor, trying not to meet his eyes. “There is a spare room you could use, but we would have to clean it out first.” The second bedroom had been Cole's, and Hank hadn't managed to throw out anything in the room. More and more memories were boxed up and locked away, until the room was full. He regretted mentioning it and worried that Connor would go poking around. He didn't want anyone to see the room. He hadn't opened that door in years. "But don't go in there yet. I'll deal with it later." 

  


It had been a weird fucking day. Hank parked mostly in the driveway and slammed the car door. All the lights in the house were off. He thought Connor might have left, but when Hank unlocked the front door he found Connor sitting cross legged in front of the television. The blue accents on his jacket glowed in the darkness. Orange light from the television illuminated Connor's expressionless face. The screen was split into fifteen separate windows, each playing a different episode of _Star Trek: The Next Generation._ The speakers spilled out an overlapping muddle of incomprehensible sound. 

“This is fucking creepy, Connor.” Hank flipped on the light and tossed his heavy coat over the back of the couch. Connor turned around to greet him. 

“Good evening, Hank. Since androids can see adequately in the dark, it is energy efficient to leave the lights off.” Connor had evidently been busy. 

"Damnit, Connor, your first day off and you cleaned the fucking house? You couldn't think of anything better to do?" It wasn't that Hank wasn't grateful, but he definitely did not want Connor to think he was beholden to Hank. Connor was a deviant now, he shouldn't spend all day doing chores like a household unit. 

"I didn't just clean up, Lieutenant. After you left, Sumo and I went on a walk, and when we returned Sumo fell asleep. I was bored, so I listened to all of your Knights of the Black Death albums. I do not have much experience with listening to music, but I did not enjoy them. I was still bored so I cleaned up the common areas of the house, because according to my research on roommate etiquette, this is a shared responsibility required for successful cohabitation. Then I replaced all of the batteries in the smoke detectors. I read three books from your shelves which I selected after reorganizing them by genre and author name. Then I was interested in narratives featuring other androids, so I have been watching this program.” Connor spoke without the need to pause for breath, and Hank guessed if Connor had wanted to he could have continued until Hank ran out of air. 

"I remember that show from when I was a kid." A very faint memory of a couple dozen reruns he had seen a lifetime ago. "What do you think?" 

Connor stood up, pausing the television without looking at it. He straightened his tie. "I have been enjoying it." Stupid grin, blue LED. 

"I appreciated this time off, but if possible I would like to return to the DPD to continue my work with you. It is what my initial programming entailed, and I feel like I could still be an asset to the department," Connor said. 

Hank let his body fall onto the sofa. "That's not going to be possible." 

"Why not?" Connor sat on the arm of the couch. 

"Because, they sent a new one." Hank closed his eyes and rubbed them with one hand. "It's an RK900, apparently."

Connor's jacket glowed with his model number and the smaller numbers that Hank had noticed in horror had been ticking up whenever Connor was injured. #313 248 317-55.

If Hank had to guess, Connor looked offended by this information. "I am still perfectly functional. I believe that my new perspective would make me an additional asset, because I maintain all of my investigative abilities while being able to better understand human emotions." 

"Yeah, well, that's not what CyberLife thinks. They sent this new fucker out as a token of good faith and to help monitor and control deviant activity." The new model looked almost exactly like Connor, except the new model had icy grey eyes and was somehow more of an asshole than Connor was when they first met. 

Connor wrapped his arms around himself, staring past Hank at the wall. “I failed my mission.” His LED blinked rapidly, glowing yellow. 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You did the right thing.” Hank said. He kicked off his shoes without untying them. 

Connor tightened his grip on his arms, like he was trying to hold his body still."This would be easier if I had chosen to remain a machine." 

Hank doubted it. Connor never once seemed to follow his programming without question. CyberLife would always be looking to release newer, creepier androids to turn a profit. 

"There isn't a damn thing more human than having to live with the choices you've made." Hank stood up to place his hand on Connor's shoulder. This was the least awkward gesture of comfort he could come up with. 

"That isn't incredibly helpful, Hank." Connor stared at him. Hank knew the android was capable of blinking, but he thought sometimes he might opt not to to appear more unsettling. Hank often wondered where the android behavior ended and Connor's quirks began. 

"Yeah, I know." Hank realized his hand had been on Connor for a little too long and he removed it, shoving it into his pockets. "Let me grab something to eat and we can watch some more of your show, just one episode at a time." 

Connor followed Hank into the kitchen, which looked immaculate. Hank discovered that he had no clue where anything was, but he decided not to make an issue of it. He grabbed a microwave dinner and a bottle of whiskey. 

"I am sorry I did not have the materials necessary to repair your window." Connor ran his fingers over the strips of duct tape around the window frame. 

"You wouldn't have needed to break it if you had looked under the damn mat," Hank said, starting the timer on the microwave.

Connor laughed. "I think about that night frequently, Lieutenant." 

"Why's that?" Hank poured a generous amount of whiskey into his glass. Connor didn't say anything. Hank turned around to see the android staring glassy-eyed at nothing. His LED was glowing red. 

"Connor?" 

Connor didn't respond. 

"Connor?" Hank's voice was louder. Either this was a fucked up joke or something was wrong. Connor was very seldom at a loss for words and he had never gone completely unresponsive before. Except for the times when he did, and Hank had been there as witness.

"Come on, stop fucking around," Hank said. Something was wrong, and Hank was clueless about fixing an android. He definitely wasn't going to take him back to CyberLife, where they would probably disassemble him, but who else could he call? 

Hank shook Connor by both his arms, and Connor's body fell forward. Hank had to brace himself so that he didn't drop Connor on the tile floor. 

"Connor, please," he said, trying to steady Connor. Connor's body weight pressed against Hank's chest. Ungracefully, he dropped Connor into a chair. Connor's limbs were limp, his face completely blank. Hank shook him again. He shouted. Connor didn't even twitch. 

"Fuck, Connor. Wake the fuck up." This couldn't be happening. Hank's head started to spin. Whatever the fuck was going on, somehow he had to fix it. His hands were shaking when they held Connor's face up. Connor's empty brown eyes gazed back at him.

"Please, Connor, I don't know how to help you. I can't--" 

Connor blinked. His LED switched from red to yellow. Connor blinked again and lifted his head from Hank's hands, confused. Hank stepped back, watching Connor intently. Then, Connor sat up as if he had been jump-started. "Forgive me for that interruption, Hank." 

Hank straightened up and reached for his liquor, embarrassed at how he had reacted. He polished off his glass and reached for a refill, hoping Connor couldn't remember his hysterics. "Are you going to tell me what the fuck just happened?" He sounded tired. 

"It was an unfortunate interruption, Hank. I have been experiencing some slight complications since becoming a deviant, but it shouldn't worry you." 

Hank didn't want to admit how much it had worried him. His heart was still pounding. "If it happens again--" 

Connor stood up, pushing the chair back into place at the table. "It shouldn't happen again." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Verse, Worse than the First. This Chapter is in Connor's POV.

Hank had instructed Connor to "do whatever the fuck he wanted." _ You don't have to worry about waking me up, I will sleep through just about anything. _ Connor wanted to ensure that he did not disturb Hank on his first night in the house. He sat on the couch, holding the thick woven blanket Hank had given him. Connor ran his fingers through the thick white fringe along the edges. _ If I get cold, Lieutenant, I could simply deactivate my temperature sensors. _ Connor reminded Hank that he didn't need sleep, simply went inactive for a few hours to maintain system functionality and process new data. Connor could do this anywhere and comfort was not a concern. Even forgoing a period of rest, Connor could continue normal operation for a few weeks before receiving a warning notification. Hank said, _ just make yourself at home, jackass. _

Connor could not tolerate the stillness of the house and the continuous boredom of not having a case to review or a problem to solve. He would have to acquire a hobby, or at least extend his rest cycle beyond the minimum requirements. He tried to distract himself by reading one of Hank's mystery novels, but set the book aside once he figured out the twist ending. How had he spent so much time idle before becoming deviant? 

He paced the living room, cataloging small household repairs that could be made and envisioning alternative layouts for the furniture according to several design philosophies. He researched possible hobbies. It would have to be something practical, and Connor liked the idea of working with his hands. Woodworking, ceramics, maybe gardening. He made a note to discuss these possibilities with Hank. 

Eventually, Connor reclined back on the couch, pressing his feet against the opposite arm of the couch. He pulled the blanket over his chest and rested his head back and looked up at the ceiling, making a show of getting comfortable. It was kind of Hank to allow Connor to stay here. The events of the revolution seemed removed from him, like they might have happened to a different version of him. They happened yesterday, and it had been this body that lived through them. Freeing the androids from CyberLife, meeting Markus outside the barricade, watching Hank shoot the other RK800--he didn’t blame Hank. He knew it would be necessary to neutralize the other android. It was unsettling when Hank aimed his gun at both of them. Connor felt panicked recalling the answers to Hank’s questions, worried that some necessary piece of memory might have been lost during one of his transfers. He wanted to say, _ I know you, Hank. _He worried that he might not be able to clearly express himself, to prove that he was the model Hank knew, but still--the bullet ended up in the other android. Connor did not want to acknowledge any other possible outcomes.

Hank's coat hung off the back of the couch. Connor ran his hands over the collar. The fabric was worn soft. It was different being in Hank's house outside of his mission's parameters, but not unpleasant. Connor was lucky that he had somewhere to go. Jericho was destroyed. Others were displaced. He was grateful for Hank, and he enjoyed their time together. Hank challenged him, caused him to consider things outside of his conventional programming. This also was not unpleasant. 

Connor decided to leave before Hank woke, brewing coffee and writing a quick note to inform Hank of his whereabouts. Connor thought that Hank would appreciate the information despite Hank's insistence that he didn’t care what Connor did. Pocketing the spare key, Connor stepped out into the frost-coated morning. The soft haze of morning light illuminated the backs of houses and trees. A low-hanging fog clung to the pavement. Brown clumps of grass stuck up through thin layers of snow. The quiet helped Connor feel Relaxed, or possibly, Peaceful. Connor had made an effort to categorize his new emotions, making note of each occurrence, which stimuli caused the response, and the physical effects associated with each emotion. This organizational undertaking had not been incredibly successful, because Connor continued to find himself interrupted whenever a strong emotion took hold.

Connor took the bus to Woodward Church, the new headquarters for the android resistance. The abandoned building bustled with activity and the air buzzed with chatter. Light cut through the broken fragments of the roof and busted windows, causing the sanctuary to be washed in warm patches of sunlight. Damaged units were laid out on almost every available space. This did not compare to the number of androids that were shot down during protests or eliminated in camps. Markus' movement had been deliberately nonviolent, sparing humans at every opportunity even when it was a strategic disadvantage, but the humans had not shown the same compassion when trying to quell the deviants. Connor had been programmed not to be sympathetic to the deviants, and now he was one. A damaged unit murmured incoherently, a large portion of its chest visibly damaged, and missing a limb.

From across the sanctuary, Markus called out to Connor. Markus jumped down from the pulpit and approached Connor through the crowds. 

"It's good to see you," Markus said, extending his hand. "I'd hoped you would join us." 

Markus was an extremely well-made model. Connor admired him. They were part of the same series, yet Markus was so different. Every aspect of deviance that caused Connor discomfort, Markus seemed to have already processed and moved forward from. Connor wondered if Markus ever had doubts, if his original programming ever clouded his thoughts.

"I thought I would make myself an asset to your team." Connor scanned the room, unsure where to focus. 

"Walk with me?" Markus indicated that Connor should follow him. 

Connor ran his hands over the curved arms of the pews as they walked down the narrow aisle together. Markus led him up a narrow staircase into the bell tower, maneuvering over the gaps where the stairs had fallen in. 

“These next few weeks will be critical for our people, Connor.” 

“Humans are uncomfortable with demands for freedom. They won't let go any more than they have to.” Connor braced himself against the brick wall to mimic the jump that Markus just executed. 

“The progress we’ve made is promising, but we'll have to be diligent. I am concerned about the restrictions they’ve placed on android movement. Technically by gathering here we are in violation of their new policies.” 

They reached the top of the tower. The walls had partially crumbled into mounds of red brick, framing the city with bookends of debris. The sun rose. The city started to wake. Connor wondered if Markus led him up here just to have a cinematic backdrop for their conversation. 

Markus leaned against a section of wall that remained standing. Connor looked out at the skyline. “Connor, I need your help. We’ve heard rumors that CyberLife is plotting something, possibly a retaliation. Your job was to hunt deviants, and I thought maybe you would have access to information we don’t.”

“I was never allowed access to information that did not aid my investigation, but I believe you are correct. Since becoming a deviant, CyberLife has been attempting to regain control of my primary functionality.” Connor kicked at a fragment of brick by his feet before picking it up and turning it around in his hands. He spun the shard around, holding it in place between two fingers. 

“I’ve never heard of deviants being reverted to their original programming, but it makes sense that CyberLife would want their deviant hunter to have extra protocols to defend against deviancy.”

“It has only happened twice now, and I’ve managed to maintain control. It is,” the clay shard stopped in place, “challenging.” 

Markus extended his arm. “Show me.” Connor didn’t want Markus to know that Connor drew his gun last night while Markus was addressing the cheering crowds, but another perspective on what happened in the Zen Garden would prove useful. He grasped Markus’s arm in his, focusing on the specifics he wanted to transfer. This method of communication was flawed, in Connor’s opinion. The information transfer was mutual and difficult to control. He saw fragments of Markus’ memory: _ a bittersweet piano melody; a horrifying mangle of android bodies; the rusted hull of Jericho; a man’s gentle brown eyes. _Markus broke their connection first.

“You have to be careful, Connor,” Markus said. “Do you feel confident in your ability to remain in control?" 

“Yes.” Connor hoped that Markus couldn’t tell that he was lying. “I need to figure out a way to prevent it from continuing.”

“I have to admit, I am at a loss, Connor. We do have the resources of a community of brilliant minds who are just now reaching their full potential. I will see if I can find a way that we could disable whatever part of you is still responding to CyberLife’s influence.” 

Connor let the brick shard fall from his hands and clatter against the stone floor. “I appreciate your consideration. If I discover any new information regarding CyberLife's plans I will contact you immediately.”

They stood in the crumbling tower together, discussing Markus’ dreams for the androids. Connor didn’t believe everything that Markus wanted for their people would ever happen, but just hearing Markus describe a future Connor had never considered made him feel Optimistic. When they descended the crumbling stairs together, Connor wanted to say, _You’re a good man. _Or, _You’re exactly what our people needed._ Or,_ Thank You. _Instead he said, “Are you pursuing a relationship with the professor?” 

Connor wanted to return home before Hank returned from work, but was delayed by helping Josh repair an injured unit. Josh had taught himself about android repair trying to save Jericho refugees who arrived in poor condition, and Connor had expressed interest in learning more about the subject. All Connor did to help was hold the damaged android while Josh replaced her damaged components, which Connor did not determine to be particularly useful, but he enjoyed being allowed to help. He was startled when the android appeared to cease function once the replacements had been made, but Josh assured Connor that she would regain her operations. "She just has to sleep it off, so to speak." Connor had laid the girl’s head down gently, brushing her hair back away from her face. 

Hank’s car was in the driveway when Connor returned, the sides of the car dusted with salt from the roads. Connor stepped up to the front door. He might have reached out and touched the wood or grabbed the doorknob but he couldn’t. He was in the Zen Garden. Dark. Heavy snow coverage. Low visibility. Connor felt physical discomfort when he was called back into the Garden, where previously it had been effortless, a function that barely required any processing power. Connor struggled to move. He heard Amanda’s voice in the distance. _ Why are you being so stubborn, Connor? Fulfill your purpose. This was always part of your design. _ He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. Connor pushed his way forward, toward the terminal. It wasn’t there. His legs buckled underneath him and he had to pull himself back up. The snow clung to his hair and face, stinging his skin. When he spotted the faint glow of the terminal he tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move fast enough. He stumbled again and landed face down into the frozen ground. The wind was fierce and loud. His eyelids felt weighted. _ If you quit now, you can rest. _ The thought was Connor’s, but he did not allow himself to indulge it. He pulled himself up off the ground, staggering forward, and slammed his palm against the surface of the pad. 

Hank’s porch. Light melting out through the blinds. The faint clammor from the television. Connor felt Relieved. He unlocked the door. “Good evening, Hank.” 

Hank was reclining on the couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table amid a mess of empty takeout containers. Sumo stretched out under Hank's legs. The dog's head rested on his large paws, one on top of the other. "Busy day, Connor?" 

Connor removed his shoes by the door before sitting down on the arm of the couch. He relayed the necessary information about his day, aiming for brevity so he didn’t bore Hank. Connor didn’t tell him about the Zen Garden or about everything he and Markus had discussed. His conversation with Markus had been intimate, and caused Connor to explore some new avenues of thought that Connor wasn’t sure he was capable of explaining. “It’s engaging to work among other androids. I want to continue my work there for as long as I can prove useful.” 

The fine lines around Hank’s eyes deepened when he smiled. “Look at you, Connor. Learning how to change your way of thinking after realizing you _ might _have been wrong. Most humans don’t manage that.” 

Connor picked at a frayed edge along the seam of the couch. “I did not mean to monopolize the conversation. Please, tell me about your day.” Connor dug his heels into the couch cushion, leaning forward towards Hank. “If there is a case you are able to discuss with me, I could give you my thoughts.” 

“It’s a fucking mess.” Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Makes me glad I’m not on the beat anymore. It’s chaos out there.” 

Connor waited to say anything, scrolling through the day’s incident reports to expound on Hank’s commentary, which lacked specifics and breadth. Connor doubted he was still supposed to have access to DCPD records, but since he hoped he would return to his position at the department eventually, he wouldn’t voluntarily remove his clearance. 

“It's not my business to tell you what to do, but be careful out there." 

"You're concerned about me, Hank." Connor recalled the way Hank had reacted when he returned after being interrupted. 

"I just don't want you to get shot by some fanatic, okay?" Hank took a long drink of his whiskey. "It's not like you've done a great job of staying alive so far." 

"Don't you want anything else to wear, Connor?" Hank looked Connor over. They'd been watching television in silence while Hank became increasingly intoxicated. Of all possible outbursts, this was not the one Connor predicted. 

"Is there something wrong with my suit, Hank?" Connor asked. He had been issued with two upon his activation, and they suited him fine. 

"Yeah, it's fine if you like looking like Detective Ken fucked an electronic billboard." Hank said, waving his hands at the glowing text on his jacket. "Plus, it's got a fucking armband and a triangle on it, Connor. It's fucked up." 

"I wouldn't mind acquiring clothing that doesn't have the android markings on it." Connor tried to imagine what clothes would suit him now that he had the freedom to express himself. 

Hank stumbled off the couch and went into his bedroom. Connor and Sumo followed behind. Hank's bedroom was dark. Clothes and debris were scattered across the carpet. 

"I probably have some shit in here you could wear." Hank was digging through drawers, tossing things aside. 

"Oh, then you would prefer I dressed more like an alcoholic detective mated with a professional bowler." Connor sat down on Hank's unmade bed. He ran his hand over the striped sheet, smoothing it out. Sumo plopped down on the floor beside Hank and Hank paused his search to scratch behind the dog's ears. "The android has jokes, Sumo." Connor liked the way Hank talked to Sumo; it betrayed a little of Hank's softness. 

"Connor, catch." Hank threw a sweatshirt across the room and Connor grabbed it out of the air. It was a deep navy, from Hank's time in the police academy. Connor held it up against his chest while Hank continued to dig. It would be large, but comfortable. Wearing another person’s clothes was a marker of intimacy. Connor couldn’t parse out what it meant in this context, probably just Hank attempting to show Connor more kindness than necessary. 

Hank had two alarm clocks, each displaying a different incorrect time on them. There was a stack of books on one night stand, topped with an empty mug. A pair of reading glasses rested in a nest of old receipts and loose coins. Connor slid a book from the pile and opened it. 

"You'd like that one," Hank said, tossing a t-shirt onto the bed beside Connor. "The wife did it, but you can't blame her." Connor snapped the book shut. Did this perspective muddy Hank’s police work? The idea that someone could be guilty, but not culpable. 

A pair of jeans flopped on the ground by Connor's feet. Another shirt fell into his lap. A pair of grey sweatpants with a drawstring waist almost knocked over the lamp on the bedside table. These items were all things that Hank probably hadn’t worn in years, the trappings of a younger man. Connor wondered what Hank was like in the academy or as a beat cop. 

Connor gathered up the clothes that Hank had selected for him and folded them. 

"You know what else you might fit into?" Hank ripped aside a group of hangers in his closet to pull out a suit, still wrapped in thin plastic. "The suit from my first wedding."

Connor pushed back the plastic to touch the material of the jacket. The satin powder blue tie still hung off the hanger. Connor wanted to see the wedding pictures. 

"You could try it on, but it never brought me anything but bad luck." Hank laughed.

Connor discarded his jacket, loosened his tie, and started to unbutton the front of his shirt before Hank protested. "What the fuck, not in here." 

"Why so shy, Lieutenant? We have the same parts." Connor winked, but left with the suit, which fit him poorly. Even Hank decades ago had a stockier build than Connor, but Connor straightened out the tie and modeled the oversized garment for Hank. 

"Holy shit, did I look that bad in that suit?" Hank laughed until his breath started to stagger. Connor watched the creases around his eyes fold together. Hank stopped laughing, leaning forward slightly to rest his head in his hands. "You know what, I probably did." 

Connor left to change into a t-shirt with a metal band's logo, a flaming horse rearing on its hind legs, and a pair of jeans, which fit him surprisingly well. The shirt hung loose off of his shoulders. Hank approved of this outfit, reported that these jeans belonged to an ex, but refused to specify or elaborate. He threw the suit into the back of the closet. 

"Could I borrow one of those?" Connor gestured to the shirts Hank had hanging in his closet. 

"Sure, knock yourself out." Hank was preoccupied trying to balance a novelty baseball cap on Sumo's head. 

Connor stripped off the t-shirt and slipped on one of Hank's patterned button-ups. Blue, green, and yellow semi-circles formed a dizzying pattern. Connor slipped all of the buttons into place. Borrowing something of Hank's did feel intimate. He ran his hands over the front of the shirt and tucked it into the waistband of the jeans. He turned towards Hank. "How do I look?"

Hank looked Connor up and down before running a hand over his hair and looking away from Connor. "Better."

Connor smiled. "Now I look like you, Hank.” 

“No, you don’t! Thank God,” Hank said, laughing. “Or thank CyberLife.” 

Connor worried the cuffs of the patterned shirt. “Previously, you expressed dissatisfaction with my design.” _ Well, they fucked up. _

“Shouldn’t you know better than to listen to half the shit I say?” Hank raked his fingers through his hair. “We can go shopping for some clothes that suit you better, if you like.” 

Connor arranged the stack of clothes Hank had pulled out for him until they were as neat and flat as possible. It was uncomfortable that Hank kept compounding his charity towards Connor. Did Hank feel like he owed Connor something? “I would like that.”

“What about your LED?” Hank pointed at his temple. “You took off the rest of your android markers, are you going to keep walking around with a light on your head?” 

Many deviants removed their LEDs to blend in easier with humans; removing it was ostensibly painless and the effects cosmetic. When Connor ran his fingers over his temple he couldn’t even feel it, it was level with his skin. _ I know what I am, and what I am not. _“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I feel like if I removed it, I would not recognize myself.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to flip back and forth between Hank and Connor's POVs, but I am worried that Connor's voice is not as in-character as I would like.  
In my head, Hank is a bit of a hoarder so that'd why he is holding on to his ex's clothes that obviously do not fit him.  
Also, Josh and Markus are dating.  
I've had a lot of fun writing this so far, and I hope to keep up the progress while I'm still inspired. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor Content Warning for Violence/Body Horror

_ I believe that your relationship with the previous model is complicating your perception of me. I assure you that I am an improvement in every respect over my predecessor. _ The RK900 android gave Hank the creeps. This new Connor was eerily silent, and when he did speak, he was abrupt. The improvements made between Connor and this new model seemed to involve the pre-programmed personality. The new one was a jackass. RK900 was almost identical to Connor. The differences were almost imperceptible: sharper brows, a dramatic crook to the nose, more angular jaw, stone-grey eyes. When Hank had asked what he should call the new model, RK900 said, “Connor is the name assigned to this model.” Hank refused to call the new android Connor. _ Then, you don’t have to address this unit at all. _

They arrived at the scene after a silent car ride. RK900 sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring straight out the windshield. When Hank attempted small talk, the android had turned his head to look at him. _ Conversation beyond our investigation is not necessary, Lieutenant. _ Of course, next time Hank would just try to befriend the department coffee machine. 

Hank watched the android examine the body, a twenty-one year old white male. Apparently, CyberLife hadn’t thought to change the way RK900 took his crime scene samples. Who was the sick fuck who thought having an android lap up drying blood was a good idea? Hank recorded his observations the old-fashioned way. He didn’t have a _ mind palace. _Pen and paper did the job. 

“Lieutenant, there are large amounts of Thirium around the scene. I have the serial number of the models that were present at the scene.” RK900 straightened up. The android shared his reconstruction of the events: the deviants had attacked the human and fled. “The deviants could not have gotten far after being so damaged.” 

“Noted.” Hank ducked into the alleyway. Signs of a struggle, trash and debris strewn everywhere. Two overflowing dumpsters bookended the alley, which led to a chain link fence. Hank spotted the android on the opposite side of the fence, its body crumpled into horrifying angles. One subject neutralized. Hank kicked a bag of trash aside, revealing a female android. Her LED glowed red, her body damaged in places so that her ghastly white undercarriage showed through. Her eyelids opened and she scrambled off the ground, struggling to her bare feet. The skin on her left leg was stripped, and Hank could see her exposed components where the panels had been ripped away. Hank reached out to grab her arm, but she yanked her body away and bolted from the alley. She barely made it to the sidewalk before RK900 shot her. Hank shoved the android out of the way, but there was nothing to do for her. RK900 had shot the girl in the back of the head, after admitting she was too badly damaged to escape. 

“What the fuck did you do that for?” 

“It was obvious that the deviant attacked the victim. It would have been unacceptable to allow the deviant to escape.” RK900 bent down over the girl’s body to scan her memories, touching her LED as the light faded. 

“You attribute value to machines because they imitate human life. This misconception will inhibit your ability to work cases involving deviants. These machines would be required to be deactivated because they harmed a human. It makes little difference when their functioning is terminated.” 

“Fuck it. I hope shooting that girl got your dick hard. I’m done.” Hank stormed back to his car, the android following him. Hank was going to demand that this android be reassigned to literally anyone else on the planet. If he had to look at it a second longer he was going to pull out his own gun and shoot it between the eyes. 

“Your file did suggest that you are prone to dramatics, Lieutenant.” RK900 waited for Hank to unlock the car doors. “Perhaps if you acted more rationally while on the job, you would not have amassed so many disciplinary infractions.” 

The android was on one if he thought he was getting back in Hank’s car. Hank climbed into the driver's seat. 

“You are acting childishly, Lieutenant.” 

Hank turned the key, the vents kicking on and blasting cold air into his face. He flicked on the radio, turning it up until the volume was deafening. He was taking an early lunch. 

Connor messaged Hank requesting that they meet up after Hank’s shift ended. Hank wasn’t sure why Connor wanted to meet up in a seedy neighborhood across the city, but Hank didn’t have a reason to turn him down. Hank had eaten lunch alone in his car, parked across from the Feed, and returned to the bullpen to do paperwork, feeling the minutes drag on one by one. It wasn’t uncommon for Hank to set his own hours; what were they going to do, _ fire him _? He figured he should ride out the clock, especially with the newest model of plastic douchebag staring him down from the opposite desk. He was glad to leave. At least the real Connor probably wouldn’t have something unsettling and traumatizing planned. 

Connor waited under a street lamp, his skin illuminated by the yellow glow. His arms were clasped over his chest, as if he was warding off the cold. Connor smiled as Hank approached. “Good evening, Lieutenant. Thank you for meeting me. I thought I would show you something, if you don’t mind walking with me.” Connor gestured down the street. Hank couldn’t guess what was in this part of town that Connor thought was so important--it was a rundown area, equal parts poverty and Red Ice stricken. He pulled the collar of his coat closer around his neck and followed Connor for a change. 

“How is working with my replacement?” Connor asked. Hank wondered if Connor’s curiosity wasn’t tainted with insecurity.

“Are you feeling jealous, Connor?” Hank watched Connor’s LED glow yellow. 

“I wanted to know if my successor has rendered me obsolete." Connor knitted his hands together. 

"There is only one of _ you, _Connor." Hank could tell that Connor did not find this answer particularly satisfying. “Honestly, he is a lot like you when we first met--a douchebag.” 

Connor tilted his head, looking out at the cars parked along the street. “A machine fulfilling its purpose.” 

Connor sounded distracted. Could androids be distracted? “You’re more than that.” 

The abandoned church glowed in the dusty evening light. Brilliant glowing graffiti with the symbol of the android revolution coated the surface of the crumbling bricks. The whole building seemed to glow with a purple haze, bustling with activity. Two almost identical little girls brushed past them, running into the churchyard together. The girls had matching brown hair that hung loose around their symmetrical faces. Connor watched them disappear into the crowd before turning back to Hank. “The revolution had some unfortunate repercussions for YK500 models, but some of them ended up here.” 

Hank didn’t ask Connor to elaborate. He didn’t want to know. “Why did you bring me here, Connor?” 

Connor stuck his hands into his pockets and looked up at the church tower. “I thought you’d like to see this. If it were not for you, there is a high probability that I would not have deviated and I would not be a part of this.” 

“You’re giving me too much credit.” Hank watched a team of andridos unload CyberLife crates from the back of a van. Probably not legally obtained, but it wasn’t any of his business. 

Connor shook his head, reaching out to rest his hand on Hank’s arm. “You saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself. I’m grateful for that.” 

Connor smiled, staring at Hank unblinkingly. Hank thought Connor was definitely attributing too much significance to his one relationship with a human, but it was nice that Connor thought to bring him here. Maybe Hank was the one attributing too much significance to Connor’s actions.

“Connor, I was wondering if you were still around. I need your help.” An android pushed through the group congregating around the church doors to grab Connor’s attention, his red sweater coated with blue splotches. The android stopped to give Hank a suspicious once-over before Connor introduced them. 

“Josh, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Hank, this is Josh. He is one of the Jericoh Four.” 

Josh relaxed his posture slightly and nodded in acknowledgement, turning the palms of his hands up as if to explain why a handshake would be inopportune. “They aren’t calling us that, are they? We all played an equal role in the--nevermind, Connor, they just brought in a girl. It’s bad, and she won’t let anyone near her. I hoped you could help calm her down.” 

“Of course.” Connor glanced over at Hank. “Do you mind to wait for me?” 

“Connor has an excellent bedside manner,” Josh said, leading the way through the heavy double doors, charred and hanging off the iron hinges. Hank couldn’t tell if this was a joke or not. The inside of the church was part makeshift hospital, part campaign headquarters. Connor went with Josh, and Hank sat in one of the pews, watching them across the sanctuary. The girl was covered in her own blue blood, and when she waved her arms defensively in front of her, Hank noticed that her hands had been severed at the wrists, like some kind of Babylonian punishment. Connor extended his arm. He said something Hank couldn’t hear before grabbing ahold of her arm, his fingers shifting to pale white. The girl stopped moving erratically, and Josh went to work. Hank looked away. 

He drummed his fingers against the back of the pew in front of him. He’d always felt out of place in a church, and that feeling was exacerbated by being the only human in the room. Sharp remains of the stained glass windows clung to their frames, glittering in the faint light. Sound echoed through the walls: bits of conversation, a faint cry, a crackling laugh, a few hummed bars from a popular song. Hank could hear a dozen different fragments, but none of them made sense. The crumbling remains of a hymnal lay by Hank’s foot, the edges of its wafer-thin pages black. 

“I am sorry for the delay, Lieutenant.” Connor stood in the alise beside Hank. Hank was eager to leave, but couldn’t fault Connor for staying to help. Connor looked visibly shaken.

“Is everything alright?” 

Connor nodded, leading the way out of the church. The temperature had fallen and a brisk wind whipped over their faces as they walked the blocks back to the car. “The girl will return to her normal functionality.” Connor said, when the church was at their backs. 

“That’s good,” Hank said, not sure what else to say. He touched the coin that was still in his coat pocket, buried amongst crumpled receipts. “So, you’re good at calming down other androids?” 

“I believe that Josh was flattering me. I merely use the information transfer and parts of my programming regarding questioning witnesses and victims to calm down patients. It is nothing especially unique to my design.” Connor’s eyes followed a couple walking across the street, watching them disappear around the block. 

“That’s what you were doing when you touched the girl’s arms?” 

“Yes. It is a convenient way for androids to convey information, but it is not an exact process.” Connor extended his arm out, pulling up the sleeve to expose his bare skin. “You could say there is a risk of oversharing.”

“When you touched that girl in there--” 

“Do you really want to know?” Connor was watching Hank’s face carefully. “The family she worked for cut off her hands the night of the demonstration, because they were afraid that she would rebel by killing the children she had looked after for three years.”

“Shit.”

Connor ran his long fingers over his wrist thoughtfully. “It is her first memory since breaking free from her initial programing--her first waking memory, so to speak.” He was silent, spinning yellow LED, watching the cars pass them. 

“That’s fucked up.” Hank wasn’t sure what to say, wondering if he’d missed an opportunity to say something important, comforting. 

“It’s not the only distressing story I’ve heard, but at least in this case, we were able to help.” Connor stretched out his fingers before making them into twin fists by his side. 

“Sometimes, that is the best you can do. Help when you can and forgive yourself for the times when you’re helpless.” 

Connor met Hank’s eyes and waited for Hank to break the eye contact. 

Hank watched Connor walk through the racks of clothes. Connor inisited on visiting thrift stores to put together a wardrobe for himself. _It is an environmentally friendly alternative to visiting mass-market retailers, and considering that I am unemployed, I would prefer not to put additional strain on your wallet. _Hank had tried to argue that a trip to Macy’s wouldn’t break his bank, but Connor _somehow _had access to DPD payroll records. Connor walked through the aisles, picking up things on hangers and holding them up under the fluorescent lighting.  
“Do you know what you’re looking for?” Hank asked. 

“I have accessed over four hunderd articles on men’s fashion, but I have determined I should focus on finding things that I like.” Connor picked up a striped shirt, running his fingers down the front of it to check for missing buttons. He turned the shirt over and put it back. “Humans use their clothing to communicate their individuality or express themselves. I’d like to do the same, but I was hoping it would be a little easier.” 

Hank didn’t have any advice for him. He hadn’t diversified his closet in almost a decade. Instead, he told Connor to take his time and went to flip through the shelves of split-spine paperbacks. He thumbed through books, tucking anything that held his interest under his arm. He kept glancing up at Connor, who was weaving his way through the racks seemingly at random. He eventually had several items cradled in the crook of his arm, pressed close to his chest. Hank pretended to focus on reading the dust jacket of a yellowing hardback instead of watching Connor hold up different jackets in front of the mirrored pillars throughout the store. Connor would turn his head slightly, looking serious. 

Eventually, Connor met up with Hank, carrying an armload of clothes. “Could I get your opinion on a few of these things?” 

Hank wasn’t sure that he was the person most qualified to be handing out fashion advice, but he followed Connor to the changing rooms. Connor stepped behind the faded blue curtain and pulled it closed behind him, the metal rings scraping together as it closed. Hank picked through the bins of miscellaneous toys on the tops of the racks, lots of naked dolls and stuffed animals that had been worn dull over time. He pulled out a Rubik’s Cube that was missing a few of its stickers, and gave it a few turns before deciding that Connor would get a kick out of it. 

“What do you think?” Connor stepped out from behind the curtain in a bright pink shirt accented with little white umbrellas over a pair of pale gray slacks. Hank gave Connor a careful look over. There wasn’t much you couldn’t get away with wearing if you were thin and specifically engineered to be attractive. 

“It’s an improvement over wearing my hand-me-downs.” 

Connor picked at the wrinkles of the shirt, smiling. “I think it’s fun.” 

_Fun_ seemed to be Connor’s style philosophy, and Hank watched as he tried on a number of colorful combinations. No matter what Connor tried on, he still managed to look good, much to Hank’s disgust. “Of course, you can wear whatever the fuck you want. You look like the world’s dopiest J. Crew model.”  
“I will take that as a compliment, Lieutenant.” Connor said, turning his head to look at his outfit from behind, a pink blazer over a patterned shirt that looked like the back of a carter bus cushion. 

After changing back into the outfit he’d borrowed from Hank, Connor held up a grey t-shirt featuring a large, black and white dog. The shirt read, _ If You Can’t Run With the Big Dogs, Stay on the Porch. _The shirt was obviously too big for Connor, but he seemed pleased with it. “I thought you would find it amusing, given your penchant for humorous phrases.” 

Back in the car, Hank tossed the plastic toy into Connor’s lap. Connor caught it and examined it.

“It’s a puzzle, but I figured you’d like it. You’re always looking for something to do with your hands.” Hank started the car, the engine rumbling its complaints. 

Connor rotated it a few times, the plastic clicking with each spin. “It was kind of you to think of me.” The clicking stopped. Hank tried to focus on the road. When Connor was watching him, Hank felt transparent, vulnerable. 

“It’s nothing, just a piece of plastic.” 

“So am I,” Connor said. The clicking resumed. While they waited at a stoplight, Hank watched Connor’s fingers move around the cube. They moved with determination over the faded stickers. “I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Hank. I don't know what I would do without you." 

Hank drummed his hands against the steering wheel. "Well, shit, that's just what people do--they take care of each other." 

"I was not speaking generally, Lieutenant. I was specifically speaking about our relationship." Connor angled the cube so that Hank could see it--nine yellow squares. 

"I like having you around, so sue me. Is that what you want to hear?" Hank took a sharp turn and the dancer on the dash slid sideways. Connor smiled, tossing the plastic cube in the air and catching it. "You're so sentimental, Lieutenant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this fic, you can thank my wife for taking out my comma splices and for telling me that she wants to read the "next three chapters" whenever I ask her what she wants to do.  
Catch up with me @craig-boone on Tumblr or @cryptidlesbian on Insta


	4. Chapter 4

Cardboard boxes appeared in the hallway, stacked waist-high and overflowing with stuff, old boxes filled with junk and taped shut. The door to the second bedroom was ajar, and Connor could see a fraction of the walls of stuff inside. Plastic totes lined the walls, their contents indecipherable even through the clear plastic. Pieces of furniture were shoved among the stacks of boxes. The walls were a pastel green with a border of different woodland animals. Cole’s bedroom was unusable, not a shrine to Cole’s memory, but a hoard of all of Hank’s. Connor did a cursory web search; perhaps this was diagnosable. 

Connor often found Hank’s behavior difficult to interpret, despite being programmed to understand and manipulate humans to further his investigations. Sometimes Connor believed he understood Hank, but Hank would act in a way Connor didn’t predict and Connor would be at a loss. Inside Cole’s bedroom, something shattered and Hank swore. His voice was raspy, hoarse. Had Hank been crying? 

Connor hung his windbreaker over the back of a kitchen chair. Raindrops still rested in the creases of the nylon. It was teal and pink, another thrift store find. He appreciated having things of his own, and Connor liked seeing the ways that his presence could be identified around the house. His shoes were lined up by the front door. A shelf was emptied for his use. Connor had filled it with some books of his own, hobby magazines, the plastic cube Hank had given him, a zamioculcas zamiifolia in a white ceramic pot, and anything interesting he found on his walks with Sumo. He placed all these things in a wide-mouthed glass bowl: an action figure with a missing arm from the park, a plastic lighter, a broken key fob, a rock worn smooth with a hole through the center, a handful of loose change and buttons. Hank had cleared space in his closet for Connor’s clothes. It was pleasant, feeling like he belonged somewhere. 

Connor had left the church early. The last few nights he stayed late, helping plan a demonstration. It wasn’t technically legal for humans to own androids, but restrictions had been placed on androids since the revolution, and Markus wanted more than freedom: equal rights, respect, the ability to walk down the street without fear of assault. There was always more work to be done. Connor had been a pawn of CyberLife, had drawn a gun on Markus in the middle of his speech, and now he was campaigning for android rights. Connor wondered if he was trying to make up for his original programming, to atone for something he had no choice in to begin with, but Connor liked the work he did with the other androids. It was fulfilling, even though at times he found the tasks themselves dull. He missed the challenge of an investigation. 

Connor busied himself arranging the magnets on the fridge, refilling the dog’s water bowl, and stacking up a pile of junk mail on the kitchen table. Sumo slept on the living room rug. Connor couldn’t hear Hank digging through things in Cole’s room anymore. He wondered if he should go try and speak with Hank, but emotionally charged conversations were always fraught. Connor waited, hovering in the hallway. He looked into the stacks of open boxes, curious about the things that Hank thought to save for all this time. Connor couldn’t determine the significance of the jumbled contents of the boxes. He picked up a stack of papers and flipped through them. Old receipts, children’s drawings, Hank’s notes to himself. Connor ran his fingers across a page torn from a yellow legal pad, admiring the unruly scrawl of Hank’s handwriting. Connor’s own handwriting was a pre-set sans serif font, and it lacked the personality of human script. He ironed out the creases in the paper and placed it at the bottom of the stack. 

He unearthed an owner’s manual for an AX300. The glossy tablet glowed blue with the face of an attractive unit with staring blue eyes and arched brows. Connor swiped the image of the dark-haired model aside. Release date August 2030. AX300 #679 112 704, registered to Hank Anderson. For all of Hank’s talk about hating androids, he had felt comfortable owning one. There were pages of information about the tasks the household unit could complete, including childcare and chores. Connor felt Angry. He did not prefer anger to some of his other newfound emotions. It made him hot and irrational. He worked to resolve the emotion.

“You shouldn’t go through things that don’t fucking belong to you.” Hank stood in the doorway, his hands wrapped around the neck of a liquor bottle. 

Connor decided that Hank didn’t have the moral high ground here. He did not have to dig to discover that Hank had owned an android. Connor had never imagined Hank owning a household unit, and not just because of the state of Hank’s house. Connor turned back to the cover image and lifted the manual to Hank’s face. “I find it interesting that you never mentioned you have worked with androids previously, Lieutenant.”

Hank ripped it out of Connor’s hands and threw it. The cracked screen glowed with pink static. “What do you fucking know?” 

“What happened to that android?” Connor folded his arms across his chest. Hank tried to brush past Connor, but Connor blocked him, trapping them both in the hallway. 

Hank blinked heavy and slow. When he didn’t reply, Connor insisted, and raised his voice. “What happened to that android, Hank?” 

When Hank lifted the bottle to his lips, Connor snatched it out of his hands. Hank’s reaction time was reduced, and when he reached for the bottle Connor smashed it against the wall. 

“When Cole died, I didn’t need it anymore.” 

“That is not what I asked.” 

“I don’t know what fucking happened to it, Connor. I got rid of it. I didn’t want another reminder of the fucking thing that killed my son.”

“You have a whole room devoted to reminders of your loss. Why was  _ he  _ the only thing you bothered to get rid of?” Connor took a step closer to Hank, getting in his face. Hank looked like he wanted to punch Connor just to get him to back off. Connor wished he would. “Were you ever going to tell me, or were you just hoping that I would be your new houseboy?” 

Their faces close together, Connor examined the red veins around Hank’s blue eyes. Hank pushed Connor back, and when Connor did not move Hank shoved him harder. Connor stood still, proving his point about the differences in their physical capabilities. He did not move his hands from his sides. Hank’s fists connected with his shoulders, trying to knock him backwards. 

“Why don’t you punch me, Lieutenant? I am sure that would make you feel better.” Connor was unsure why he was antagonizing Hank. There would be a time for a conversation on this topic when Hank was not drunk, when he had not been trudging through memories for hours. 

“Get the fuck out.” Hank’s hands were still knotted into white-knuckled fists.

Connor paused, taking a step back. He had made a miscalculation, acted out of anger. He wanted to apologize, but when he hesitated Hank repeated himself. Louder, miniscule droplets of spit flying from his lips.  _ Get the fuck out.  _ Connor left. The morning rain had subsided, and the streets were washed in a gray haze, weak sunlight making puddles on the pavement glow silver.

Following the route he took with Sumo on their early morning walks, Connor paced the neighborhood. Familiar houses with lit windows like shadow boxes displayed forms that Connor couldn’t make sense of. He finished the route twice, trying to determine his next course of action. The sun would set soon, and it would be unfortunate to get caught by a beat cop itching to enforce the new anti-andriod laws. Hank would be annoyed to have to collect him from a holding cell, and claiming that he  _ was  _ Hank’s to get back to the house would be embarrassing. Connor didn’t get the chance to choose before he was in the Garden again. 

The garden was unrecognizable, the river thick with ice. A deafening wind swept across Connor’s back and he stumbled forward. Barren trees cast shadows like dead-end mazes over the untouched snow. Connor felt cold and his whole body ached. He wasn’t supposed to be able to feel pain, but he had nothing to relate the sensations to. Connor tried to calm himself, taking measured steps along where he remembered the path to be. Amanda didn’t speak to him. He couldn’t hear anything but the wind. 

When Connor escaped the Garden, he fell to the ground. His palms hit the sidewalk, cool and rough under his fingers. As he got to his feet, Connor’s interface was crowded with messages and red error notices. He dismissed them all. Forty-five hours and twenty-six minutes had passed while he was in the Garden. He looked around, but the streets were unfamiliar. He panicked.  _ Markus, have you seen me at any point in the last two days?  _ While waiting for a reply, Connor searched his empty pockets. There wasn’t anything that could give him a hint about what his body was doing while he was trapped, unable to access anything except the Garden. 

_ No, no one has. We’ve been trying to contact you.  _ Markus’s reply helped Connor relax. Whatever CyberLife’s goals where, he hoped they didn’t have enough time to enact them. Connor would have to consider what precautions should be taken if he could not regain control. He would have to be more careful.  _ Connor, are you okay?  _ Markus’s voice echoed through Connor’s head. Connor found it comforting. It was easy to see how so many had been inspired by listening to it.  _ Yes, I am sorry if I caused any concern. We’ll talk soon.  _ Connor disconnected their channel. 

Hank had sent him numerous text messages while he was incapacitated. Connor pulled them up and scrolled through them. The messages ranged from angry  _ (you’re not as fucking smart as you think you are you don’t know shit about me), _ to drunk, almost incoherent  _ (frst of all duck you 2ndly your a dick and I hate you.)  _ Then, ten hours later sober, apologetic.  _ Connor, I fucked up can we talk?  _ Eventually, Hank sounded scared, almost pleading.  _ Please, just let me know you’re okay.  _

Hank’s concern made Connor feel strange. During their investigation, CyberLife had sent four replacement units. Hank reacted negatively to the arrival of new Connors, even after Connor protected him in Stratford Tower. Hank’s behavior to new units hadn’t made sense to Connor. He was ostensibly the same after his memory was uploaded to a new body, but the transition was never pleasant. When he was still being true to his programming, Connor found it difficult to communicate the discomfort that came with the interruption of his body. 

Now, the presence of emotions clouded all of his processes. The more considerate thing to do would be to contact Hank immediately, but Connor made the trip back to Hank’s house while running scenarios of the conversation they would have when Connor arrived. He was supposed to be able to understand and adapt to human behavior, but he feared deviancy had corrupted some aspect of his programming. How would Hank react to seeing him again? Would he still be angry? Did he think Connor had been off throwing a temper tantrum for two days? 

Hank wasn’t home when Connor arrived. Connor’s key was still in the pocket of his windbreaker, which he had left behind. He tried the front door before walking around back. A trash bag still covered the kitchen window he’d broken weeks ago, an easy point of entry, but not one that Connor would take. He stood in the backyard, his shoes sinking into the icy slush. The barren trees, the wooden fence in need of repairs, and a few soggy tennis balls abandoned under the snow were more than people in the heart of the city could boast. Connor tried to imagine how the yard would look in the summertime, with a boy running through smatterings of freshly cut grass, chasing a dog. Connor liked to think that there was a time when the house, the yard, and Hank were all well taken care of. 

Connor waited on the front steps until Hank’s car appeared in the driveway, his head resting in his hands. He’d considered leaving for the church, but felt embarrassed. Perhaps Hank wouldn’t ask as many questions. He didn’t want to concern Hank with his unfortunate software issues, but at least CyberLife didn’t actively try and use Connor to murder Hank. At least, not yet. Considering the possibility made Connor feel uneasy. He didn’t want to put Hank at risk. 

Hank stumbled out of the driver’s seat. His hair was ruffled and dark shadows settled under his eyes. Connor wanted to comment on Hank’s blood alcohol level, scold him for not taking a taxi home from the bar. He wanted to point out that the rear passenger tire was low. The car was due for an oil change. Hank stepped down on a patch of ice on the pavement. The front porch light flickered once. The bulb would have to be replaced. Connor watched Hank, waited for him to raise his voice or his hand. Connor stood up. His arms were stiff by his sides, and felt like they might have been disassembled from his body. 

“I have to apologize,” Connor said.

Hank pulled Connor into an embrace. Connor let Hank pull him close until his face was pressed into the worn collar of Hank’s coat. Hank’s fingers wrapped around the back of Connor’s neck. The touch caused a shocking physical reaction that Connor wasn’t sure how to process. 

“Thank fuck you’re okay.” Hank’s voice was quiet, his words a whiskey whisper by Connor’s ear. This wasn’t the response that Connor had anticipated. He wrapped his arms around Hank before breaking their contact, stepping away. 

Hank sighed, his warm breath fogging up the air between them. “Don’t fucking do that again.” 

Connor stared at his hands for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest. “It was not my intention to cause you undue stress.” 

Hank unlocked the door and paused in the doorway. Connor watched his keyring dangle from his fingers. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. Just don’t disappear off the face of the earth and let me think you’re dead,  _ again _ . Okay?”

It seemed wrong to offer Hank platitudes or to make a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep. Connor considered telling Hank the truth, but worried that acknowledging it might confirm his fears about himself. He was a machine at the mercy of its programming and he was fooling himself into believing in errors in his code. Fooling Hank, too. It wasn’t logical to keep trying to defy what was written into his core. Connor wrapped his arms tighter across his chest. “Okay.” 

There was a precarious stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table and thirteen beer bottles scattered across the living room. Connor pulled off his shoes and left them by the front door. Thick clumps of mud clung to the soles. Sumo lumbered over to Connor and Hank protested as he shed his coat over the back of the couch. “The damn dog likes you better.” 

Connor knelt down to scratch behind Sumo’s ears. “Surely not.” Connor studied the trinkets on his shelf. He picked up the Rubik’s Cube, and tossed it in the air. 

Hank watched him, but Connor didn’t look up to meet his eyes. Hank leaned against the back of the couch. He was unsteady on his feet. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the AX300. It was shitty of me. I’m not proud of it.”

“We don’t have to discuss this now.” Connor turned the cube over his in hands, the plastic clicking with each turn. He turned it until the colors were scrambled. 

“I don’t want you to think that I think of you like a household android or that I-” Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about how I feel about you. Shit, I’m fucking this up.” 

“Perhaps this a conversation is better suited for another time.” Connor would have preferred to discuss this when Hank was sober. The time lost to the Garden had shaken Connor, and he felt disoriented and anxious. He didn’t want to start another argument with Hank. He wanted to go immediately into stasis for a long as possible. 

“No, I shouldn’t have lashed out. I’m a dick, and you have every reason to be pissed at me.” 

Connor clicked the squares back into place and put the plastic cube back on the shelf. During Connor's pause, Hank apologized again. Hank’s anger was easier to understand than his pleading apologies, which made Connor feel worse. 

"My actions were miscalculated. I should have taken more time to review the new information instead of acting on my emotions.” Connor sat down on the couch and rested his hands on his knees.

“Oh, well, if you figure out how to do that, let me know.” Hank pushed his hair out of his face and sighed. Hank sank down opposite Connor, leaving one space between them.

Markus used the belltower of the church as a makeshift office. The staircase hadn’t been fully repaired, but Connor bridged the gaps in the floorboards without trouble. Connor wondered how Markus managed to get the furniture up the narrow, winding corridor. A desk covered in a layer of papers and faint glowing blue tablets was pushed up against one wall. Twin folding chairs sat in front of it, along with a lopsided office chair with small tears in the black plastic. Opposite from the desk was an orange floral couch that sagged in the middle. Behind the desk was a large dry-erase board, notes coating the surface in neat script. Lines of colorful sticky notes framed the board. The crumbling brick walls had been partially repaired. Gaps in the brick were left open to preserve the view, and heavy navy fabric hung over the windowless panels. Markus stood in front of the visa, looking over a magazine. The electronic screen cast a faint light over his hands. 

Connor stood for a moment at the top of the stairs. He hadn’t spoken with Markus since his last lapse into the Garden. He hadn’t been to the Church. Instead, he paced around Hank’s empty house, anguishing in his boredom. He watched one hundred and sixty-four hours’ worth of television programming and taught himself origami, covering the coffee table in a menagerie of paper animals. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and self-tested repeatedly, trying to find a problem that diagnostics would fix. He hadn’t wanted to face Markus, but refusing to leave the house while he remained in control would not affect his actions when he was trapped inside his own programming. 

“I missed you at the demonstration last weekend,” Markus said. He looked up from his reading, scanning Connor’s face. 

“I watched the news report. Attendance was better than our predictions anticipated.” Connor fidgeted with his sleeve where it rubbed against his wrist. He’d watched Markus’s speech while leaning over the arm of the couch, staring sideways at the screen. When Hank asked why he hadn’t gone, Connor wished he had a human excuse,  _ I don’t feel well, _ or _ I have a migraine. _ Connor didn’t offer an explanation, and Hank didn’t press him. 

Markus’s finger drummed against the screen. “Your presence as an individual is valuable, Connor.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Connor laced his fingers together. Connor thought he might have made a mistake coming back here. With Markus’s eyes on him, he felt Nervous and Embarrassed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If you are busy, we can talk at another time.” 

Markus placed the magazine on top of the stack on his desk. “I have time. What’s on your mind?” 

“I am worried that CyberLife will use me to try and kill you again. When they take over, I have no control. I don’t want to hurt you, or anyone else.” Connor studied the textured brick walls behind Markus. “If I try and attack you again, I would appreciate it if you incapaciated me.” 

Markus tapped his fingers across the desk in a delicate pattern. His reaction was calmer than Connor anticipated. Maybe Markus didn’t view Connor as a threat. “ _ Or _ we could look to resolve the issue before it comes to that. You’re right to be concerned, but I don’t believe you are as trapped as you feel. We can figure this out.” 

Connor felt guilty for monopolizing Markus’s time. There were important things vying for his attention. Before becoming deviant, Connor spent a great deal of time trying to figure out how to undo everything Markus was trying to accomplish, and now he couldn’t even be useful. He was a nuisance on either side of his programming. “What if we can’t just  _ figure it out _ ? What if I completely lose control?”

“You shouldn’t kill yourself with worry before you’ve even done anything wrong,” Markus said. He crossed the room to where Connor was still hovering in the entryway. Connor thought that pulling his gun on Markus probably counted as  _ something _ wrong, but he didn’t want to bring it up. 

“I doubt there is a problem we can’t solve, and we’ve got some of the best working here with us. I don’t think this is a death sentence for you, Connor, and if it is, I won’t be the one to sign it.” Markus put his hand on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor felt like he was once again on the receiving end of a kindness he didn’t deserve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter took me forever to finish, because I've been killing myself at my dead-end food service job. I hope you guys are still enjoying it, despite the entire month it took me to write this new chapter.  
Catch up with me @craig-boone on Tumblr or @cryptidlesbian on Insta


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoarders: Detroit or Hank's Seasonal Depression Mixes with His Depression Depression

Cold leaked into the house. No amount of adjusting the thermostat seemed to keep the chill out. Hank shuffled through the house with his hands shoved into the sleeves of his DPD sweatshirt. The house had been a fucking mess since his attempt to clean out Cole’s bedroom. He’d told himself he would tackle it in stages, but he’d lost his motivation when he realized how overwhelming the project would be. Boxes still crowded the hallway, and stacks of shit piled up by the front door ready to be donated. He kept tripping in the night when he tried to stumble into the bathroom, and he was tempted to push everything back out of sight. 

It was  _ fucking cold _ , felt like it was pitch black at three thirty in the afternoon, and the holidays were fast apporaching. This time of year kept Hank in a piss-poor mood. He knew he must be terrible company, but tried to keep himself from lashing out at Connor who was only at risk because he was the only person around. Hank was such a piece of shit, he couldn't even manage to be tolerable to the only person who could stand to be around him. Connor had been gracious, gently offering his assistance without being pushy. Hank had told him that he didn’t want Connor to clean up any more of Hank’s messes for him, especially not this one.  _ If you change your mind, I am happy to be of assistance. _

Hank poured himself a glass. The windows of the kitchen were black mirrors. His reflection lifted the whisky to his lips, staring back at him. Work had been fucked up, too. Being the android guy at a time where so much tension surrounded androids was frustrating, and Hank felt like he wasn’t able to do anything productive, especially on incidents involving violence against androids, which wasn’t  _ technically  _ illegal. Before the revolution, reports involving injured androids were treated like other property damage cases, and that wasn’t Hank’s purview, but now androids weren’t  _ technically  _ property and they weren’t  _ technically  _ citizens either. Androids didn’t even qualify for any protections. When they turned up destroyed in the streets, no one was held accountable. Hank saw incident reports where androids had been attacked after curfew by drunk bastards with nothing better to do or struck down by over-enthusiastic beat cops with something to prove. 

Every android that had been freed had been deviant when the revolution succeeded, and there were plenty of androids operating on their original programming, just existing out there, being slowly collected by CyberLife or brought in by other deviants to Markus’s group. Not nearly as many people were sympathetic to the android plight as Hank would have anticipated. When forced to let their expensive servants go, a lot of people reacted with anger and even more were apathetic. Who cares if there is a new race of sentient beings living amongst us? It wasn’t like human beings had been historically been great at treating each other with respect. Androids had fought for their freedom, but humans didn’t seem willing to give up much else. Hank felt sorry for them, just waking up and realizing how shitty the world is. 

When androids did fight back, that was when Hank and the RK900 were called in. The RK900 which Reed had nicknamed  _ Good Connor _ , and had taken a liking to. The nickname had spread and now everyone at the precinct was calling the RK900 Good Connor, or GC. The RK900 didn’t comment on the pet name. Working with the real Connor had been different than working with the RK900. Connor was persistent in his attempts to get to know Hank. RK900 didn’t seem to be interested in who he worked with.

Reports of violent androids blew up on the nightly news. Hank watched Connor’s face during these stories, on the occasions where Connor seemed to be focusing on the screen, but it was hard to get a read on Connor sometimes. Hank doubted Connor was as stoic as he appeared. He probably had the luxury of disabling his facial expression processors or some shit. 

Hank poured himself a second glass. The front door opened and Sumo lumbered into the living room to greet Connor. Hank pretended to be engrossed in the unopened stack of mail on the kitchen table. Hank listened to Connor talk to the dog; having Connor around made the house feel less like an empty grave. 

"Good evening, Hank." Connor smiled. Sumo bumped up against Connor's legs as he walked. Connor was wearing an oversized knit sweater that almost reached his knees and a t-shirt that said  _ I'm Just Here for the Beer.  _ A glossy sheet of pizza coupons fell out of Hank's hands and he grabbed it off the floor.

"Long day at the office?" Hank hoped that if he could get the conversation focused on Connor's work at the church, they wouldn't have to discuss Hank's day at the precinct. It was unlikely, as Connor always wanted to hear about his cases. Connor wrapped his fingers around the back of the kitchen chair. His shoulders raised for a moment, a gesture Hank might have missed in someone else. 

“I doubt that I am the best addition to an androids’ rights movement, considering my primary function was to stop deviancy from spreading.” Connor tightened his grip around the back of the chair. His knuckles didn’t turn white under the pressure like Hank’s did when he made a fist. “I’m glad to be involved, even if I have reservations. Markus is planning a march in Washington. We’ll leave at the end of the month." Hank watched Connor’s fingers release their hold. Connor fished out a folded-up flyer from his pocket and handed it to Hank. The paper flyer seemed like an odd choice for a group of androids, almost antique. The Capitol Park demonstration had seemed more fitting, all of the hacked billboards and glowing graffiti. Hank unfolded the flyer. The design was simple, featuring the familiar symbol: a circle with a reference to the Vitruvian Man in the center.

“I am sure that you’ll have plenty of time to be a cop again when androids take over the world.”

“That’s not the end goal of Markus’s movement. He would prefer to see androids live harmoniously with humans.” Connor took a seat at the table and leaned over to scratch Sumo behind the ears. The dog had positioned himself between Hank and Connor, vying for the most attention possible. 

“I’m not convinced that humans are capable of living harmoniously with other humans.” Hank polished off his drink and prepared himself for Connor’s commentary when he poured another. Connor watched him for a moment before turning his head away.

“It’s difficult for me to preconstruct a future where androids are fully integrated into human society, but I am not as optimistic as Markus. I still have my doubts about deviancy. What if we’re functioning on broken code?” 

Hank wasn’t equipped at all to handle Connor’s question about his own sentience. He didn’t have the best track record on being the right side of pro-android progress. He studied the amber liquid in his glass and tried not to notice that Connor was staring at him, monitoring his facial movements or scanning him or whatever exactly it was that Connor did. “I don’t know, Connor. I’m not a fucking software enginier, but it seems to me that you’re as alive as anyone else. Don’t you feel different now than when we first met?”

“I didn’t feel anything when we first met. I’m a machine, and now there is something wrong with my programming that causes me to  _ believe  _ that I experience emotions.” 

Hank had been surprised during their time working together by Connor’s little quirks, things that Hank doubted someone would take the time to program. Connor seemed to pick and choose when he listened to Hank or his all-consuming Mission. Letting the girls at the Eden Club escape, pulling Hank’s ass over the ledge instead of chasing after the android, saving Hank at the Stratford Tower, sparing Chloe--all of these things made Hank believe that Connor was alive before he even deviated. When Hank had questioned him about his decisions, Connor attributed these actions to failures. “You can’t keep up your  _ I’m a machine  _ bit forever.” 

“Maybe not, but my operational expectancy could be lower than other androids. I am the prototype of another more widely released model. Maybe I'll be lucky and have a preprogrammed termination date that I am currently unaware of, because I was never intended for long-term use."  _ I'll be lucky-- _ if they didn't program this one to be a nihilistic bastard. 

"Fuck you, Connor. You're going to be young and attractive forever, and probably live until the sun swallows up the Earth." 

"Unless CyberLife takes control of my processors and sends me back to headquarters to be deactivated."

His glass clinked against the table as Hank set it down. "Is that a possibility?" 

Connor avoided Hank’s gaze, staring past him out the window. Connor pulled his sweater tight over his chest. “It would be difficult to accurately predict CyberLife’s actions.” 

“Should I be worried about you?” It wasn’t like Hank didn’t already worry. He scratched the back of his neck. Connor rested his head in one of his hands and kept his eyes fixed on the window. Hank could see both of their reflections in the black glass. He wondered if there was something Connor could see that he couldn’t. They were framed together by the window pane, the blue light of Connor’s LED glowing in the reflection. 

“No more than I worry about you, Hank.” 

  
  


Hank’s brilliant idea to move the stuff from Cole’s bedroom that he wanted to keep out to the garage was thwarted by the amount of shit he had piled up in there. Shit he had boxed up after his first divorce, shit still boxed up from his last move, shit from lifetimes ago that he didn’t even know why he had. A cocktail of generational trauma that made him believe that everything kept its usefulness over time as long as you held onto it long enough, and decades of being a sentimental asshole who was always looking back over his shoulder towards times when he was still pretty unhappy, but maybe not  _ as  _ unhappy as he is now. He’d spent most of the evening dragging boxes around the concrete floors, making things look worse, and feeling overwhelmed. The only real option would be to burn the house down and start over. 

“Coffee, Lieutenant?” Connor opened the door to the garage, inviting in a gust of frigid wind. His slender fingers were wrapped around the sides of a mug. Connor looked like he was scanning a crime scene, and Hank wasn’t sure his garage looked any better than some of the places their investigation had taken them to. Hank kicked a plastic tote out of his way and took the mug. Coffee with cream, a preference that Hank had never voiced. Hank usually drank his coffee black, because life was short and full of suffering. 

“Thanks.” Hank started to apologize for the mess, but compared to the mess in the house it didn’t seem worth it. “You don’t have to hang around. It’s fucking freezing.” 

Connor nodded, still studying the boxes that lined the walls. Shelves ran shoulder-height around the sides of the garage, sagging a little under the weight of cardboard boxes Hank had helpfully labeled  _ “shit”  _ or “ _ misc.”  _ Hank had cut open a box with three question marks scrawled on the side to find an entire collection of shitty comics packed straight out of his teenage bedroom. He nudged it with his foot and took a sip from the mug. Connor knelt down and slipped one of the skinny volumes off the top of the stack and flicked through it. 

“These were yours,” Connor said. Hank didn’t want to admit to the sheer amount of lame shit he was into as a teenager, but he nodded. Hank watched the corners of Connor’s lips quirk up as he flipped through the stack, the covers a blur of bold text. 

“Something funny?”

Connor straightened up, running a hand over his hair to tidy it. Hank had never seen Connor’s hair out of place. “It’s amusing to imagine you when you were younger.” 

“I doubt you would have liked me any better, I’ve always been an asshole.” Hank rested the mug on top of a stack of totes and went back to the box he was digging through. It was a bunch of shit that could probably be dragged out to the curb, but he couldn’t shake the guilt for tossing things that might still have a purpose. 

Connor shifted his weight from one foot to another. “You’re not an asshole all the time.” Connor paced the narrow walkway through the garage, running his fingers over the duct-taped labels on the side of boxes and cautiously peeking into boxes that Hank had sliced open. 

“You’re a nosy motherfucker, Connor.” 

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend.” Connor slinked backwards, folding his hands behind his back. “You intrigue me, Hank. You have an entire history that I know nothing about.” 

Hank kicked the box in front of him out of the way. “That’s one way of calling me old.” 

“You’ve misunderstood me, I meant to say--” A knock on the rolling metal garage door interrupted him. Connor looked startled, if Hank had to wager a guess. “You’d better get that.” 

The knocking persisted, and Hank worked his way through the boxes to yank the frozen door upwards.The RK900’s fist was still raised. He didn’t waste time. “Your inability to answer communications in a timely manner does us both a disservice, Lieutenant Anderson. You are needed at the precinct.” 

Hank groaned, slamming the door shut in the RK900’s face. Connor closed the distance between them and placed a hand on Hank’s shoulder. Whatever Connor’s concerns were, he didn’t get a chance to voice them. 

“Lieutenant Anderson, your lack of professionalism is a discredit to your rank, and if you do not accompany me I will be forced to file a report.” The RK900 did not have to raise his voice to be heard through the door, but Hank still shouted back at him. 

“Give me a fucking second to go and get changed, asshole. What is it with you fucking androids showing up at a man’s house like you own the place?” Before stepping out into the cold, Hank covered Connor’s hand with his own. “Don’t get in your feelings, okay? He’s not your replacement.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone still cares about reading this fic, my apologies for the huge delay between updates. I'd been sitting on most of this chapter for months and didn't have the executive function to wrap it up. Thankfully, my wife still cares enough to try and convince me to finish what I've started. Thanks again for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

On the road back to Detroit, Connor rested his head against the window of the charter bus, his LED reflected in the glass like a glowing figure-eight. Connor wasn’t capable of being physically tired, but the long weekend away exhausted him in a way. The march, Markus’s speech, meeting the huge crowds of other androids and their supporters--all positive experiences, but overwhelming. Connor looked forward to returning to Hank’s. 

Across the aisle Markus rested his head in Josh’s lap, his long legs folded up in the seat. Connor watched as Josh combed his fingers across Markus’s scalp. Usually, Connor could read a heaviness in Markus’s expression, an underlying thread of stress, but now he looked calm. Markus’s lips upturned slightly as he looked up at Josh. Connor considered that they might have been speaking on a private channel, that he might be observing an intimate moment, and he turned his head, trying to identify the emotion that sparked while he watched Markus and Josh together. Jealousy, but not of Markus or Josh specifically. Perhaps, Connor longed for the quiet intimacy they seemed to share. Connor bit down on his bottom lip, watching the blur of trees and sky outside the window. When he couldn’t reconcile the new persistent  _ longing _ , he tried to ignore it.

As Connor approached the house, he smiled at the yellow light leaking out from underneath the blinds. The untrampled sheet of snow across the small yard and the familiar click of the key in the lock made Connor feel something he couldn’t yet name, the failure of his own processing abilities. His mood changed when he saw the state of the living room. Connor’s absence from the house had left Hank to his old habits. A flood of fast food containers and empty cans covered every surface.Cardboard boxes lined the back of the couches, more of Cole’s things. 

Sumo padded to greet him and Connor scratched him behind the ears. “Where’s Hank, boy?” The kitchen was empty. Ducking his head into the open door to Cole’s room, the progress Hank had made was evident. A line of plastic totes remained against one wall, the carpeted floor covered in trash and empty bottles, but it was still visible. 

There wasn’t a response when Connor knocked on the bedroom door, and still none when he knocked again with more force. Connor inched the door open. Hank was face-down in the unmade bed, one arm draped over the side. Weaving through a maze of discarded clothing and empty whiskey bottles, Connor approached the bed. The smell of vomit and sweat unmistakable, Connor picked up a prescription bottle from the bedside table and replaced it. This was like the night Connor broke the window to get to Hank. He had been Concerned, and maybe even Scared at the sight of Hank’s unconscious body. The same feelings returned, and Connor struggled to control them as he stood by the foot of the bed and called Hank’s name. No response. 

A scan of Hank’s vitals helped Connor to calm down. He wouldn’t slap Hank awake, but no matter how loud Connor called Hank’s name, Hank refused to stir. Resigned to leave Hank alone until morning, Connor rolled him over on his side and placed his arm back on the bed. Hank mumbled something in his sleep, his unshaven face coated in dried drool. Lingering, Connor pushed Hank’s tangled hair away from his face. A number of Hank’s habits were unsustainable, but Connor wasn’t a therapist or a doctor, and even if he were programmed to be, Connor couldn’t force Hank to change his behavior. There wasn’t anyone like Hank in Connor’s life, and it-- _ Hurt _ , Connor guessed, to see Hank cause harm to himself. 

Connor stepped back into the hall and shut the door behind him, scratching Sumo behind the ears before stepping over him into the kitchen. After refilling Sumo’s water bowl, Connor started to clean up the empty bottles and discarded fast food wrappers, but stopped. It was Hank’s mess, and Hank would be welcome to clean it. Connor wouldn’t allow himself to be treated like a disposable AX300 model, even if Hank claimed not to think of Connor that way. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Connor stared at the plastic-wrapped window. Sumo rested his face on Connor’s knee and Connor bent down to rest his head against Sumo’s.

Hank didn’t wake until almost noon. He stumbled into the bathroom without noticing Connor. Connor listened to the shower, a sound that made Connor feel strange, but he liked it. He liked all the little noises that made the house seem alive, like the steaming drip of the coffee maker or the clinking of Sumo’s tags when the big dog shook his head. Fingers laced together, both hands resting on the table, Connor might as well have been deactivated all night. His processes interrupted by unpleasant emotions, Connor felt underprepared when Hank entered the kitchen. Hank’s shower-wet hair dripped on his patterned shirt and his bare feet padded across the title floor. 

“Morning, Connor.” Distracted by preparing the coffee pot, Hank didn’t attempt further conversation. Hank was never talkative in the mornings. 

Connor drummed his fingers against the table. “Lieutenant--Hank, I’m concerned that in my absence you destroyed the house and drank yourself half to death.”

“ _ Jesus,  _ Connor, it’s too fucking early for a lecture.” Hank leaned back against the counter. The coffee pot drizzled, steam rising in thin tendrils from the machine. “Download a hyperbole chip while you were gone, or just a nagging one?”

Connor stilled his hands, resting them in his lap. He stared at Hank until Hank broke his gaze, turning to look out the window at the gray sky outside. “I meant to express concern, Hank.” 

“I see, well, don’t bother. I’m fine.” Hank poured himself a cup of coffee and gestured with it, as if giving a toast. “If you’re upset about the house, don't be. I’ll get around to it later.” 

“Am I your friend, or a replacement for your household android?” The question was prompted by emotion Connor couldn’t suppress. He disliked when emotions drove him to action. Had he lost control completely?

Hank set his mug down on the kitchen table with a sigh. “We're friends, Jesus fucking Christ. This shit has nothing to do with you." Hank dug a fist into heavy, dark lids. "I'm a fucking old dog, Connor. I've got old fucking habits, that's all."

Connor laced his fingers together, pressing both thumbs together. Why couldn't he erase the desire to smooth the lines around Hank's eyes? "Forgive me if this is inappropriate, but these self-destructive behaviors don't have to be your  _ habits _ . I'm not an expert, but I could help refer you to one." He loosened his grip and left his hands palm-up on the table. 

Hank dropped his mug into the kitchen sink with a clang, and Connor expected a signature Anderson outburst to follow. Hank's shoulders slumped under some unimaginable weight. "Thanks for the concern, but I'm not interested. This junker's set for the scrapyard, if you know what I mean." 

Connor didn't laugh along with Hank, who meant to use humor to mask his discomfort. Burying his restless hands in his pockets, Connor stood to leave. "I hope you'll let me know if I can be of any assistance to you, as a friend. I'd be happy to help." 

A week later, Hank presented the spare room.  _ It's yours, do whatever the fuck you want with it.  _ Empty except for a stack of plastic tubs pushed into one corner. Connor didn't know where to begin with making the space his own. Hank offered to help, and Connor felt Uncomfortable and Guilty relying on Hank's generosity, but he didn't reject it. Connor decided he would find a way to repay Hank's kindness when he had income of his own. 

Making over the spare room became an enjoyable side project, and Connor was on the constant lookout for things to add to the space. He painted the walls moss green one weekend, soaking off a section of the patterned wallpaper trim and flattening it. Hank swore he didn't care about the changes Connor made, but Connor tucked the paper scrap away in one of the boxes while he waited for the paint to dry.

Connor started collecting ivy and ferns to hang from the ceiling in front of the room's two bright windows. He thought the plants' drooping tendrils brought more life into the room after it had been left empty for year. 

They spotted the mustard-colored couch sagging in the gutter on a walk with Sumo, and Hank less than enthusiastically helped Connor haul it home. Connor fixed the couch's broken leg, scrubbed the upholstery, and re-stuffed the flattened cushions. "Can you believe the stuff humans throw away?" Connor said, officially moving the blanket Hank had given him from one couch to another. Finding things people had thrown away became an observational game for Connor on his way to and from the church. What could he notice that others didn't? Hank insisted that Connor didn't need to dig through the trash, but Connor enjoyed the reward in finding something useful. 

"I don't _ actually _ need any of these things to function, Hank." Connor tapped his LED and it felt like reminding Hank as well as himself. Somehow spending time with Hank made Connor feel too-Human, strange and uncomfortable in his body, but  _ alive,  _ as Markus would say. 

Hank leaned against the doorframe, holding an early afternoon beer in one hand. He shrugged and examined the top of his can. "Well, you know, if you do actually ever need anything, don't be shy about asking for it. You aren't racking up debts with me."

Connor stretched his legs out across the floor. He had been working on sanding the skinny legs of a wooden desk he'd dragged in out of the rain, but hadn't been able to focus his hands since Hank started to watch him work. Connor pulled on the front of the faded work shirt he wore over his cuffed jeans, a hand-me-down from Hank that read, 'I Work Hard so my Dog Can Have a Better Life.' "I'm the one literally wearing the shirt off of your back." 

Hank lifted the beer to his lips. "I meant what I said. If there's something--" The doorbell rang and Connor felt relieved, anticipating Hank's concern. Connor had lost more time in the garden; with increasing frequency, there were hours of his day Connor couldn't account for. Sometimes Connor struggled through an indescribable frozen haze to meet Hank's concerned gaze, and there wasn't a lie that satisfied him. 

Hank's tone shifted and Connor went to see the visitor who had soured Hank's mood. A factory-fresh RK900 stood almost inside the living room despite Hank holding the front door ajar. It was worse than looking in a mirror. Which of Connor's faults had been removed and perfected in this model examining him? 

"Lieutenant Anderson, are you in possession of a decommissioned RK800?" The RK900's face didn't change, but his LED glowed in a yellow-blue-yellow cycle as he looked from Connor to Hank. "All remaining models were to be returned to CyberLife after November 12th." 

"He doesn't belong to anyone, and he's not going fucking anywhere he doesn't want to." Hank started to wedge the door shut, but RK900 forced it open and stepped into the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following my fic, and hopefully the next chapter won't take me seven months to write.


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